


Under a Hog

by La Reine Noire (lareinenoire)



Category: Richard III - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, Backroom Dealings, Gen, Legal Shenanigans, Machiavellian Dodginess, Profanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 08:15:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4698800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lareinenoire/pseuds/La%20Reine%20Noire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes a village to run for office. Sometimes only the dodgiest of villages will do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under a Hog

**Author's Note:**

  * For [likeadeuce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeadeuce/gifts).



> Title comes from the 1485 doggerel by William Collingbourne. It's also, incidentally, the title of a historical novel about Richard III that I have not read so I can't comment on it. Many, many thanks to my lovely beta-readers.

The cat, the rat, and Lovell our dog rule all of England under a hog.

– William Collingbourne (early 1485)

 

 

_i. The Cat_

 

Will Catesby was really fucking good at his job.

 

It wasn't egotistical. It was the truth. He'd known it for years now. When it came to speechwriting and terrifying people over telephones and the occasional spot of blackmail, you just couldn't beat him. Most of it was obsessiveness and an utter disregard for food or sleep. Some not insignificant percent, however, was instinct.

 

Which was why, when former campaign manager Hastings informed him that no, he _wasn't_ going to take Catesby's advice and abandon the sinking ship that was the Woodville-York political dynasty, there was only one choice. Sink or swim.

 

Catesby had always been a swimmer.

 

He left Hastings' apartment and went straight to the newly designated headquarters for the Gloucester campaign. Richard Gloucester had been Ed York's right hand man, and several years of watching him work from a distance had given Catesby a decent enough sense of the guy's abilities. Shame about the bad back--in a normal election, he wouldn't stand a chance, but this situation was as far from normal as you could get.

 

What he hadn't realized until just the other day when he'd finally spoken to Gloucester face to face was that the man was intelligent, ruthless, single-minded, and hilariously funny. He hadn't expected to _like_ him.

 

He had nothing against York's wife taking over his position. She wasn't the best choice--for one thing, she didn't have nearly as much experience as she claimed--but if Gloucester hadn't been there, she'd have done in a pinch. You couldn't plan around freak pulmonary embolisms, and he'd been right there with Hastings in the ICU when the doctors had pulled the plug on poor York. Elizabeth Woodville had the optics Gloucester lacked, although being drop-dead gorgeous was a double-edged sword in this business, as Reg took pains to remind him at least once a week. _Attractive women aren't taken as seriously, but unattractive women just get completely ignored. It fucking sucks, Catesby_.

 

It did. Not that Catesby could do anything about it, except to buy Reg another drink and listen to the same rant she'd been spouting since college. _Someday we'll be powerful enough to actually change things_ , he'd think to himself. _Someday_.

 

But the person to back if they wanted to change things wasn't Liz Woodville. Even Reg knew that, though she grumbled about it all the same.

 

Will Catesby only ever backed winners, and that sure as hell wasn't going to change.

 

 

_ii. The Rat_

 

"Tony Woodville's down," said Regina Ratcliffe into her headset. "Cops took him into custody just north of Stony Stratford. We should be good for a few hours. Maybe longer if he's actually charged with something."

 

"Reg, you're the best." Catesby's voice crackled a little with static, but the words came out perfectly clear. Regina smiled. "And you bugged Liz Woodville's apartment?"

"Done and done, chief. She'll never even know I was there. Although," she added with a sigh, "I was really tempted to steal a pair of her shoes. She's got so many I don't think she'd even notice. Did you know we wear the same size?"

 

"Hate to say it, Reg, but I can't see you in stilettos. Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever seen you in anything but combat boots."

 

"I could step on a guy's foot and sever his toes. There's something to be said for that," Regina retorted. "I refrained. Don't worry."

 

"When Gloucester gets elected, he'll give us both a raise and you can buy them yourself. How about that?"

 

Regina rolled her eyes. "You have no idea how much women's shoes cost, do you?" Laughing, she hung up on him, keeping her eyes on cameras 1 and 2.

 

There were advantages to being the daughter of a private detective. It had been Regina's luck to catch her dad cheating on her mom with his secretary and her testimony in divorce court had given her mom the startup money for her own firm with enough to spare that Regina had at least the beginnings of a college fund. Marilyn Ratcliffe was one of the best in the business, or so Regina was completely convinced, even if too many clients still dismissed her for being a woman.

 

Speak of the devil. Her cellphone buzzed in her pocket. "Yes, mom?"

 

"Are you seriously working for that slimeball Gloucester?" The disappointment in her mother's voice was palpable. "What about Liz York?"

 

"One, she goes by Woodville. Two, there's no chance she's going to win. Three, Catesby and Frankie are both working for him and you know you can't room with people who work for the opposition."

 

"Frankie too?" Her mother sighed. "I thought she knew better."

 

"There's nothing wrong with Gloucester, Mom. He's no worse than Ed York, and I _know_ you liked Ed York." He'd always been popular with the ladies--a bit too popular for Reg's taste or comfort, but there hadn't ever been any accusations of sexual harassment no matter how many women he'd slept with, so she supposed she couldn't actively object to him. "Or are you just going to miss seeing his face on the news?"

 

"There's no shame in admiring a handsome man, honey. But there's never been a woman in this congressional seat, and I had my hopes up."

 

There was something flattering about her mom using the past tense when the election wasn't for another month. "In time, Mom. It might even be Frankie someday."

 

"You can tell her she'll have my vote."

 

"And Gloucester?"

 

There was a pause and another sigh. "I'll think about it."

 

"At least tell your friends I'm working for him," Reg suggested.

 

"Sure thing, honey. Good luck."

 

The next hour would have been excruciatingly dull without her e-reader, but Reg kept herself busy until Liz Woodville finally appeared on Camera 2, accompanied by two young boys and a man who looked to be in his sixties. "Hello, gorgeous," murmured Regina, slipping the headphones over her ears.

 

"Goddammit, Hastings," Liz Woodville was saying, running one hand through her otherwise flawless hair, "he's beat us to the punch, just like I told you he would."

 

"Just let me talk to him, Liz. He's just doing what he thinks Ed wanted--"

 

"He's sensing weakness and going in for the kill. I'll never get this chance again. You and I both know that."

 

"Lizzie--"

  
"Don't _call_ me that, Hastings. Are you with me or aren't you?"

 

"I'm with you. Didn't I promise Ed that?"

 

"Even though all the rest of them have gone over to Gloucester like the rats they are. I'm going to win this in the end, Hastings. I promise you that. And when I do, they'll all be sorry."

 

"Mmm," whispered Regina with a grin, "now that's what I call a money shot. Give me some more and we've really got something to work with."

 

 

_iii. The Dog_

 

The name on her birth certificate was Francesca, but for as long as she could remember, she'd always been Frankie Lovell. And she'd never been comfortable in the spotlight. _Seriously, Frankie_ , Will Catesby had commented once when they were still in college, _how the hell do you expect to get anywhere in politics?_

 

That, Frankie couldn't answer. But she was damned well going to try all the same. It didn't hurt that Catesby was content to bring her and Reg along with him for the ride, first on the meteoric Ed York campaign and now on what looked like the equally impressive Gloucester run for York's former congressional seat.

 

An anonymous source (Reg, as Frankie well knew) had handed over video footage of Liz Woodville actively threatening her opponent to several local news outlets, and now she was trailing in the polls, but not by nearly enough for Gloucester's liking. If there was one thing in politics that Frankie hated above all other things, it was fighting dirty, but in this case, she couldn't help but admit that the Woodville campaign had started it. Richard Gloucester had been completely above board in all his dealings, so far as Frankie had seen. It wasn't _his_ fault that Liz Woodville's campaign manager Hastings--formerly in charge of the York campaign--had chosen to take early retirement the previous week. Rumor even had it he'd gone off with his long-term girlfriend, leaving the Woodville campaign scrambling for a new manager. Things were looking pretty good, at least until Frankie's cellphone rang with a number she'd never seen before.

 

"Afternoon, Lovell. This is the Attorney General's office."

 

Frankie's heart gave an uncomfortable thump. "Counselor Stanley, how may I help you?"

 

"Oh, no need to be so formal. Call me Tom."

 

"Frankie, then." She frowned even though the man on the other side of the phone couldn't see her. "What can I do for you?"

 

"Actually, it's more what I can do for _you_ , Frankie. You see, we've uncovered some disturbing information about your candidate..."

 

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

 

"Maybe you don't. Dickie Gloucester keeps a lot of secrets, Frankie. It's been his stock in trade for years. You don't even want to _know_ what he had on Hastings. Didn't you wonder why the guy disappeared so quickly after Ed York died?"

 

"I heard he took early retirement," Frankie ventured, feeling stupider by the second. "It's not surprising at his age. And York was his best friend; maybe retirement was a bit extreme, but nobody begrudged him a leave of absence at least."

 

"He's dead, Frankie."

 

" _What_?"

 

"Hastings is dead. Shot himself in a cabin in the Poconos two nights ago. At least that's what the police are saying."

 

"Wait, wait a second." Frankie had to stop to catch her breath. "Are you seriously accusing Richard of _murder_?"

 

"Oh, not murder, Frankie. Your man's too subtle for that. But we traced a phone call from Gloucester to Hastings half an hour before Hastings decided to blow his brains out on his back porch. Whatever he said, it must have been pretty nasty." She could almost hear the grin in Stanley's voice and had to fight not to retch. "I don't suppose you know anything about that phone call, do you?"

 

"No, I don't keep tabs on Gloucester's phone calls." Even as she racked her brain, Frankie couldn't for the life of her remember what they'd been doing two nights ago. She'd been with Reg and Will at the bar celebrating the latest poll numbers. Richard had stopped by early in the evening but left soon afterward, pleading an early night. "That's not my job," she said, sounding more confident than she felt.

 

Not that that made any difference with Stanley. "Your _job_ , Frankie, is to know anything and everything about your candidate. Not doing so well, are you?"

 

She felt like she was sliding further and further into a dark hole, filled with slime and God only knew what else. "What do you _want_ , Counselor?"

 

"When Gloucester goes down--and note, Frankie, that I said when and not _if_ \--I'm offering you the chance to save your career."

 

"You want me to spy on him."

 

"Spy is such a loaded term. Just pass on information when it comes your way. Let justice be done and let freedom ring. Right?"

 

"I didn't know you liked Liz Woodville that much," snapped Frankie. "Thanks but no thanks."

 

"If you change your mind, you've got my number."

 

The dial tone buzzed in Frankie's ear for a few seconds before she hung up, sick to her stomach. _It can't be true. Everyone knows Stanley's a sleazeball_. And if he was on the Woodville side, he had every reason to badmouth Gloucester.

 

She brought up CNN's website and found herself staring at a photograph of a peaceful-looking cabin on the banks of a lake. _Former York Chief of Staff Found Dead in Family Cabin_.

 

"Oh, _fuck_ ," Frankie muttered. Without even thinking, she hit Gloucester's private number.

 

"Frankie, I need you to calm down," were the first words he said after she poured out the entire conversation with Stanley. "I'll handle it. This isn't your fight."

 

"Are you sure? I mean, we--me, Catesby, and Ratcliffe--can all vouch for you being in the city that night. There's no way you could have made it all the way out to Hastings' cabin short of a teleportation machine, you know?"

 

"I said I'll handle it, Frankie. I need you to focus on more important things. Like your job." Even those words didn't sound nearly as stern coming from Gloucester. Something about his voice made everything seem like a joke.

 

"You got it, boss." Slowly, Frankie began to breathe again.

 

"And I can promise you Liz Woodville will regret crossing me."

 

It was only after they both disconnected that Frankie realized that, for the first time, he hadn't sounded at all amused.

 

 

_iv. The Butcher_

 

It had all gone to hell somehow, and James Tyrell had no clue what to do. The damn kid must have been allergic to something. Nuts or dairy or gluten or whatever the fuck else people were allergic to these days. He'd always eaten whatever he was told. It was simpler that way.

 

This was the opposite of simple. One kid was out cold and would be for a few more hours, thank God. The other wasn't breathing.

 

He'd had one job. Hang on to the York kids, keep them distracted and out of sight until their mother dropped out of the congressional race. Easy peasy.

 

Except it wasn't.

 

It hadn't been so bad to start. He'd plonked the boys down in front of an X-Box and for a few hours all he'd had to contend with was the sound of video game machine guns and the occasional shout as one of them accidentally shot the other. But then the little one had asked for a snack.

 

"What did you give him? Tyrell, what the _fuck_ did you give him?" Catesby was practically choking on the words over the phone.

 

"Peanut butter and jelly. You know, normal kid stuff."

 

"Fucking hell. Fucking fucking hell." He could hear Catesby pacing back and forth, could almost smell the cigarette he was definitely chain-smoking. "And you're sure?"

 

"He's not breathing, boss."

 

"What about...does he have one of those things, those...epi-pens, that's it!"

 

"A what?" Tyrell stared down at the unconscious kid. Just beside his hip was a crushed object made of white plastic. He could just make out what looked like a prescription label. "There was this thing in his pocket that looked like a pen but he landed on it when he fell."

 

"Fuck." Catesby took a slow, rattling breath. "Call 911."

 

"But I thought--"

 

"Call 911, Tyrell. If they get there in time, we might not get charged with fucking murder. Kidnapping is bad enough. Jesus Christ."

 

"How was I supposed to know--?"

 

"Call the fucking ambulance. _Now_." The call disconnected. With a desultory shake of his head, Tyrell dialed the three digits and sighed.

 

Predictably, when the EMTs arrived, they took one look at the situation and called the police. And by the time Catesby showed up, Tyrell was in cuffs in the back of a cop car. He could hear Catesby arguing with them, something about Miranda rights and due process, and the lead cop's disinterested responses.

 

Tyrell knocked on the window and one of the cops cracked the door. "The kid."

 

"What do you want?"

 

"The kid. Is he okay?" He strained to see past the cop and Catesby to where the ambulance was still parked in front of the building. "Tell me he's okay."

 

Catesby nodded grimly. "He's conscious. A bit shook up, but he'll be okay."

 

Tyrell sank back into the seat. "Well, that's something, I guess." At least he wasn't going to have murder on his conscience, accidental or otherwise. Unexpectedly, a memory surfaced of Richard Gloucester maybe two or three years before, when Tyrell had first met him. _There are some things you can't come back from_. He'd been talking about his dad and brother, killed in a hit-and-run when he was a teenager, but there'd been this weird look in his eyes that Tyrell hadn't wanted to meet for more than a second at a time. And then it had just disappeared as though it never existed.

 

Tyrell watched Catesby now as the ambulance slowly pulled away from them. His fingers were clenched tight around his cellphone. His lifeline, Tyrell remembered Catesby's friends teasing him.

 

 _We're all going to need one now, and Gloucester's no longer it_.

 

Something in him recoiled at it, but he knew what he needed to do.

 

 

_v. The Soldier_

 

It wasn't every politician who'd give a chance to a security guard with a prosthetic leg, but Richard Gloucester had, and John Howard would have cheerfully taken a bullet for him on any day of the week.

 

In fact, in the current circumstances, he'd _rather_ take a bullet for the guy than watch as Gloucester stood on the steps of City Hall while Attorney General Stanley indicted him for kidnapping, extortion, and conspiracy to murder William Hastings. If even one of the charges stuck, his career would be over and he'd spend the rest of his life in jail, or so Stanley was vowing. James Tyrell's confession had been enough for Stanley to subpoena all of Gloucester's phone records, and even Regina Ratcliffe's technical wizardry hadn't been enough to hide the call he'd made to Hastings on the night of his suicide. It turned out the NSA had full audio, and that was the nail in the coffin.

 

Beside the Attorney General was a small, nondescript woman in a brown suit holding an enormous folder filled with papers. It was almost as big as she was. As Howard's eyes met hers, she gave him a poisonous smile.

 

"...must give credit to the tireless work of my excellent legal team, particularly Ms Margaret Beaufort."

 

Howard had seen her before and now he remembered where. She was a paralegal, an underpaid, low-level scrub just like him. No, nothing like him. He protected his boss from people like her, who wanted nothing more than to tear him down. Howard could feel his hands clench into fists, tried to force them back to calmness.

 

"I do want to assure everyone here that Mrs Woodville's two sons have been reunited with their mother after their ordeal..."

 

 _Ordeal, schmordeal_. Howard had only caught a glimpse of the two boys at their daddy's funeral. One of them had fidgeted the whole time while the other had his eyes glued to his phone. Spoiled brats, both of them, and it would only get worse now that they were firmly in the public eye as kidnapping victims.

 

Gloucester was still at his apartment, and it fell to Howard to drive him to City Hall where he would turn himself in. He held himself straight--well, as straight as he could with his back--and only stumbled once as they made their way through the maze of reporters congregating outside the doors like vultures, screeching their questions and comments. _Why did you do it, Dickie? Did you really think you could get away with it?_ Howard placed himself between Gloucester and them, a big, hulking shadow, and Gloucester gave him a brief nod of thanks as he pulled the car door shut.

 

Howard drove slowly once they were out of sight of the news cameras. All of them were now making the mad dash to City Hall, hoping to catch the arrival of this year's most notorious criminal, the man who would be Congressman.

 

"I've got a question for you, Howard," said Gloucester out of nowhere.

 

"Sir?"

 

"You never asked me."

 

"Never asked you what, sir?" Howard echoed, keeping his eyes on the road although he knew Gloucester was watching his face in the rearview mirror.

 

"Why I did it." Gloucester sighed. "They all asked me. Catesby, Ratcliffe, Lovell, all of them. And they all had the same expression, like kicked puppies. God, they're so young." He smiled briefly. "I don't think I was ever that naïve, even at their age. I don't think you were either, Howard."

 

Howard shook his head. "Couldn't afford to be, sir. I was at war."

 

"I never thought Tyrell would cave. He never seemed like the type."

 

Howard forbore to comment. Tyrell had always seemed squirrely to him, a small-time crook with ambitions but no discipline. "Everyone makes mistakes," he finally said.

 

"Yeah. I suppose." As Howard glanced at Gloucester's face in the mirror it occurred to him for the first time how _young_ his boss was. Half his age, easily. _And he'll spend the rest of his life behind bars if these bastards have anything to do with it_. He had it bad enough in the real world with his back and his bad arm. Jail would kill him.

 

Howard turned right at the next traffic light.

 

"This isn't the way to City Hall," Gloucester observed, brow furrowed. "Where are we going?"

 

"Do you want to go to jail, sir?"

 

"Fuck, no. You think I'm an idiot?"

 

At a stop sign, Howard turned around to face him. "Then, as I see it, sir, you have two choices. You go to City Hall and turn yourself in. Or..."

 

"I'm not the getaway type, Howard. That was always Ed's way, not mine."

 

Without another word, Howard reached into his holster and touched the handle of his gun. "You leave the rest to me, sir. I just wanted to give you a choice."

 

Gloucester looked at him for what seemed like an endless moment. Then, in a voice that shook, he murmured, "You deserve better, John."

 

Howard smiled grimly. "You gave me better than I deserved, sir. It's past time I repaid the favor."

 

***

 

They found the car and two bodies floating in the river later that afternoon, following a panicked manhunt for Attorney General Stanley's most infamous suspect. One of the bodies had a bullet hole in the head.

 

The most-quoted news headline the next morning came from a muttered comment by Stanley's star paralegal Margaret Beaufort. _Hand in Hand to Hell. Richard Gloucester and bodyguard John Howard found dead_.

 

James Tyrell was released shortly afterward. Rumor had it he left town, possibly even the country. The case that was supposed to make Tom Stanley's career fizzled into nothing with the death of the lead suspect, but Margaret Beaufort got a generous job offer from the NSA.

 

Liz Woodville ran unopposed and left for Washington to serve out the rest of her husband's congressional term.

 

Will Catesby went to work for Regina Ratcliffe's detective firm. Frankie Lovell quit politics for academia. They still live together, but they never speak of Richard Gloucester. At least not unless Regina's sprawled on the couch with her boots half-unlaced, Frankie's halfway through a bottle of Montepulciano, and Will's had enough martinis that he can feel himself sinking back.

 

Then, it almost feels right.


End file.
